


and our breathlessness as we run

by takingyournarrative



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Summer, ex-desolation cult gerry, i really just want to write summer vibes because i'm yearning, i'm a survivor babey, it's self indulgence, just vaguely though, this will be only semi-relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 09:08:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingyournarrative/pseuds/takingyournarrative
Summary: It took him a couple moments to register that Michael was calling to him. It sounded like he’d wandered off a bit, and Gerry sat up and shook himself to clear the spots from his eyes. The lingering effects of light that intense, light with heat behind it, still disoriented him, and for a moment he thought he smelled smoke on his clothes. Michael called him again through the trees, adding something about raspberries, and he stood up to follow his voice into the brush.in which it's summer
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Given that I have characteristically rambled in the tags again rather than using this convenient "notes" space to tell you what the hell this is, here's a reiteration in more words:  
> -summer fluff oneshots because i'm sad and cold all the time  
> -for some reason i decided to make gerry an ex-cultist of the lightless flame because why the fuck not  
> -more details on that later, probably, since i can't write pure fluff and will definitely need to scatter that in  
> -title from "lille" by lisa hannigan  
> -have fun?

Gerry was falling asleep. The afternoon had come warm and buzzing with insects and he and Michael had been safe, sheltered from the worst of the sun by the trees. He was collapsed now on the blanket — he’d been watching the light shifting through the branches above him, listening idly to Michael’s singing as it danced with the birdsong — and now his eyes were drifting shut and a comfortable stupor was falling over him.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, this kind of relaxation. He worried that he ought to be used to it by now — he’d fallen asleep holding Michael’s hand, let himself be held without betrayal or demand, sat as unguarded as he ever was by Michael’s side often enough. Part of him feared that if he didn’t learn to quell the last lingering panic, the way electricity shot down his spine or strangled his heart at sharp noises, Michael would tire of him, or think himself unworthy of Gerry’s trust, and this brief reverie of peace and overwhelming comfort would be over.

The more logical part of him knew that wasn’t true. Michael was patient. He’d listened to Gerry tell him everything and kept the heat off in his house all winter as Gerry recovered. Everywhere they went, Michael checked with him, and the worst thing Gerry had ever heard in his voice was concern, sweet and genuine. So it was okay. He reminded himself over and over that it would be okay and he was starting — he hoped — to believe it.

It took him a couple moments to register that Michael was calling to him. It sounded like he’d wandered off a bit, and Gerry sat up and shook himself to clear the spots from his eyes. The lingering effects of light that intense, light with heat behind it, still disoriented him, and for a moment he thought he smelled smoke on his clothes. Michael called him again through the trees, adding something about raspberries, and he stood up to follow his voice into the brush.

“Gerry!” Michael’s legs and arms were scratched badly — Gerry had been surprised and a little delighted to find him reckless, once they’d warmed up to each other and Gerry had recovered enough not to be a complete burden. “Raspberries.” His fingertips and mouth were stained pink and he looked radiant, a tangle of warm bright colors among the green. Michael would make him love warmth again, and he appreciated that.

“Thanks,” he said, a little overcome. Sweet ordinary things. He picked a raspberry and ate it, and caught Michael’s eyes across the expanse of leaves. Michael grinned at him.

“How are you doing?”

“Better every day,” said Gerry. Michael held out a hand and he took it, conscious as ever of the scars on his own palm but knowing Michael wouldn’t mind. Still smiling, Michael held another berry to his lips and he ate it, marvelling at this kind of casual affection.

“I love you,” said Michael, and that was another thing — love given so easily and yet so personally, not as a mandate or to a god but to him, easily, in a forest in July with nobody around to hear them but the raspberry bushes.

Gerry kissed him. His lips were bright with raspberries and his eyes were focused on Gerry and the light fell through the trees and over his face and threw the pale shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. And kissing Michael was wonderful — a relief, after months of uncertainty, and a reassurance, because Michael slid a hand into his hair and kissed him back like really, there was nothing more that he wanted to be doing in the moment.

“I love you, too,” Gerry remembered to say when they’d broken apart, and Michael laughed and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, I got that impression,” he mumbled, and he was lighthearted but there was a reassurance there too, that there was more than one way to say such things and Gerry didn’t always have to respond in kind. “Did we bring anything we could carry raspberries home in?”

Gerry shrugged. “We could rinse the lunch containers in that brook,” he offered, and Michael nodded and disentangled their loose embrace to hurry back to the place they’d set up the picnic earlier.

Back among the raspberries, Michael forged at once to the center of the tangle while Gerry worked his way more tentatively around the edges, mindful of not getting caught on thorns. He wouldn’t have minded — certainly he was no stranger to pain at this point, but he preferred to avoid it when he could. It brought back the twisting in his gut, reminder that he was weak and unworthy of respite, much less this kind of tranquility.

“To your health,” Michael said, plucking a raspberry with an unnecessary flourish. “To your happiness,” he said on the next one. “To your contentment. To your recovery. To your always feeling loved. To your warmth, when you’re ready for it. I love you. I love you —”

And Gerry wasn’t entirely certain whether he was going to laugh or cry until he made a strangled choking noise that could have passed for either and held out a hand to still Michael’s chatter. “Michael. Michael, please.”

Michael’s expression shifted to something that was equal parts baffled and apologetic. “Sorry, was that — I just meant to wish you well —”

“Michael.” He was laughing now, and the air was full of the scent of green things and flowers and soil cooling after a long day in the sun, and Michael Shelley was ridiculous and sweet and wishing him well.

“All good?”

Gerry nodded. “Better than. I’d kiss you again if I could reach you.”

Michael raised an eyebrow and set down the jar he’d been gathering berries into. “Say no more,” he said, and pushing the brush aside he was in front of Gerry in an instant, reaching for his face and tilting it up slowly to look at him, sun-dappled and entirely lost in looking back. “You have freckles,” he said after a moment, a little stunned.

“Do I?”

Michael raised his other hand to trace a line from his nose to his cheek, where Gerry assumed the freckles were. “They’re so pretty. You’re so … ethereal.” Gerry laughed and rolled his eyes at the word choice but didn’t have time to be sarcastic because Michael was dropping light kisses along the path he’d traced and Gerry was paralyzed with it, sinking into this all-consuming adoration like he’d never been able to sink into anything before. It was better than fire and better than cool air on his burns and better than raspberries or summer or sun. “To your wellbeing,” Michael murmured, and kissed his lips.

They were distracted by one another easily, and Gerry revelled in it, in being able to break from a task at will to talk or feed each other berries or trade kisses as the sun slipped lower and lower in the sky. It was a luxury he hadn’t enjoyed before, this kind of lazy task done only for the enjoyment of those involved. It wasn’t easy to break the habit of focus he’d developed, but Michael helped, bright-eyed and giggling in the gathering dusk.

They managed to eat all of the raspberries on the walk out of the woods, between Michael’s rambling stories and pauses to catch fireflies or wade in a stream in the dark just because they could.

The air cooled against Gerry’s skin, and though he could feel the usual weight lifting with the vanishing sun, it felt less pressing this time. Michael’s hand in his was still warm and he treasured it. The stars came out as they broke the treeline and Michael kissed his temple idly, and Gerry smelled smoke on the air from some summer bonfire and didn’t mind at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some references to burns in this one but otherwise it's just soft :)

The night air was only a few shades cooler than it had been during the day, but it felt good against Gerry’s skin; soothing, a relief after hours of oppressive sunlight. It was getting easier, but he still craved the darkness and quiet that came after dusk. 

They had retreated to the roof, and it was mostly clear save for a few grey clouds that had drifted in late in the day, and everything was draped in a soft black blanket. Gerry settled himself on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over the side. Michael, more cautious, was sitting behind him, not holding him but tracing a hand up and down his back, a soothing repetitive touch that Gerry leaned into, his eyes drifting closed. Soporific, sometimes, the way Michael touched him; he relaxed completely, and it was still a novel feeling to be able to trust someone like this. A hand that didn’t sting or burn against his skin but comforted. Affection for affection’s sake.

There were fireflies off among the trees. Gerry still wasn’t sure how Michael had managed to convince Gertrude that this was what he needed, but he hadn’t been wrong in the end. The city had been too loud, too crowded with people and potential threats. It was better here, where the crickets sang their hushed song through the woods and the sound of Michael’s breathing wasn’t washed away by traffic.

“How are you feeling?” asked Michael, and Gerry smiled, half-asleep.

“Good. You?”

Michael hummed agreement, rubbing circles into his shoulders. “You sound like you’re about to drift off, love. Come here.”

And Gerry was loath to leave the side of the roof because he was comfortable there, but he turned to see Michael lying back with his arms outstretched and went to him gladly, curled up and watched a few fireflies dance above them, warm against the white light of the stars.

And he was half-asleep when the fireflies turned into sparks, and that same warm light grew up at the edges of his vision, too-hot now and too bright, and the sparks swarmed lower and he could feel his skin blister, his eyes grow dry with heat, and he remembered this from Mary’s study, but he’d meant to run from Mary, and —

“Gerry? Gerry, darling, come on. Be with me. Shh. There you are — be with me.”

He was back. Summer, and darkness, and Michael’s face was hovering over his, blond curls falling in a disorganized halo around his head. “Hey. Hi. You okay?” Gerry’s throat still felt too dry to speak, so he just shrugged, and Michael nodded, brushed a hand along his forehead — maybe displacing some stray lock of hair — and sat up to give him space.

The stars were reeling dizzy in the sky, and Gerry knew they were the same kind of fiery heat he feared but they looked better, remote and clear-white. “Thanks,” he said after a while, his throat no longer ashen, the stinging of his eyes softened by the breeze.

“Of course.” Gerry turned his head to look at Michael, silhouetted against the stars, watching him. He couldn’t see his face but his head was tilted, his body angled just slightly toward Gerry, concern and affection incarnate, and neither were things Gerry had ever imagined he could deserve.

“Could you … come over here now?”   
Michael breathed a sigh — a happy sigh, endearment, relief — and shuffled back to Gerry’s side, helped him sit, leaning back against Michael’s chest. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He felt more than heard Michael’s hum of understanding, and caught at the hand that had come to rest over his heart, pressing it gently in thanks. He wasn’t sure why Michael did that — whether it was a reassurance or a check-in or something else — but it felt nice, warm and grounding. His thumb was drawing circles on Gerry’s collarbone.

The stars turned. The moon sank down over the treeline and the small repetitive motion of Michael’s thumb was almost in rhythm with the chirping of the crickets. The sea was too far off to hear, but the air here still smelled faintly of salt, and Gerry loved it. Maybe if he’d tried the Vast instead of the Desolation things could’ve turned out differently — maybe that was nonsense, and there was no good end for anyone involved with these things — maybe it didn’t matter, because Michael was resting his cheek on top of Gerry’s head and sighing and nothing else mattered. He didn’t want anything other than this, in the end.

A firefly blinked closeby. Closer, a few seconds later, until it settled on their clasped hands and flared with light again, briefly bathing them in yellow-gold, glinting off of Gerry’s rings. It was gone the next second, and Gerry had not flinched, hadn’t felt afraid of it even as it threw candlelight against his skin.

“You alright?” asked Michael.

“Yeah. Your hands are pretty,” he mumbled. Traced his own fingers along the lengths of Michael’s, spindly and knobby-knuckled and somehow still so soft. Caressed the back of his hand, the tendons and raised veins, a small scar at the base of his thumb. He’d been in the garden earlier, picking tomatoes, and Gerry had gotten lost in watching them, the small shifting of his skin, the movement of his fingers. It was easy to get lost in small things these days, and he loved that — he was used to being overwhelmed. He’d spent the last twenty years chasing horrors, each greater than the last, and now he could sit in the sun and watch Michael Shelley gather red and orange and yellow together in a basket, softer than flame.

“Gerry.”

“Michael.”

Michael laughed at that, quiet and satisfied, the sound washing away immediately with the cricket song. “I love you.”

Gerry drew a circle on the back of his hand, repetitively, tracing the same path with his fingers again and again. “Michael,” he said, again.

Michael kissed the top of his forehead. He understood. “Do you want to try for sleep again?”

Gerry shook his head. “Not yet. You can if you want.”   
He knew Michael wouldn’t. Neither of them slept easily, and for the same reason that he would rise early to enjoy Michael’s company, he knew Michael would stay up late for him. Usually he tried to insist, but there was nothing to do tomorrow and the air was growing cooler by the minute and Michael was warm and certain in the shifting darkness. It was okay.


	3. Chapter 3

The temperature had been climbing for several days, and part of Gerry wanted to flinch at the heat — but it was humid, and he was with Michael, and the woods were shaded and green. Michael held his hand under the sun until they broke the treeline, and there light dropped intermittently through the branches and everything felt floaty, suspended in soft emerald and afternoon light.

The faint sound of moving water grew louder the deeper they ventured among the trees. Gerry cast a glance aside at Michael and found him grinning, content and clearly a little excited. He asked where they were going — again — but Michael just raised an eyebrow, shook his head.

Up a little rise, the land dipped down again — ferns and rocks in a cascade down the side of the hill to the place where water bubbled blue and yellow along the forest floor. It was beautiful. He stood for a moment drinking in the sight of it while Michael went ahead, near-tumbling down the hill with reckless abandon, sun catching on and off in his curls.

Gerry followed more cautiously after a moment, picking his way through tangled roots and sun-warmed rocks and the occasional briar to the water’s edge, where Michael was waiting for him with open arms. He relaxed into the embrace gladly, pressing his cheek into Michael’s shoulder. “It’s great, Michael,” he mumbled, and Michael laughed, tremulous as birdsong, and the afternoon was fragile and gorgeous and safe.

They separated and Gerry sat down at the bank, rummaged in his pack for his sketchbook and a pencil. Michael had thrown his shirt idly over a treebranch and waded into the river, bent his head to wash his face and hair in the cool water. Gerry wanted to join him, but he also wanted to draw him, and that won out for a while — Michael wandered up and down the river, found a spot deep enough to swim, and Gerry sat watching the way he danced between light and water, somehow as ethereal as he was real and reassuring.

Eventually Michael grew tired of swimming alone, maybe, because he made his way back to Gerry, admired and blushed at the drawings before beckoning him into the water. He came hesitantly, and Michael rolled his eyes fondly and took Gerry’s face in his hands, still cold and wet with river water.

“Gerry. Do I have to kiss you to distract you from the chill?” Gerry had caught at Michael’s waist to steady himself but found it no easier to hold his ground with Michael looking at him like that, grey eyes half-lit with sunlight, smiling playfully.

“Might help,” he admitted, and caught a glimpse of Michael’s grin widening for only a moment before their lips met and his eyes dropped closed. He wasn’t certain whether he’d gathered Michael near or Michael had pressed against him, but regardless he was as cold as his hands and Gerry found himself thoroughly acclimated to the water by the time they broke apart.

“You’re welcome,” laughed Michael, and Gerry only splashed him and dove into the deeper waters a little downstream.

Michael joined him moments later, swam to the very bottom of the river and came up holding several algae-covered stones. “They’re kind of too slimy to be worth keeping,” he mumbled, examining them, shrugging and dropping them back in the water. “I’ll get some from over there.” He gestured to the shallows by the bank where they’d left their belongings and promptly vanished under the water again.

Gerry tread water for a while, trying to stay in one place against the current of the river while Michael let himself be washed downstream before struggling back. “It’s really not fair,” he protested when Gerry laughed at his exertions, “you’re stronger than me. And I’m indulging in the spirit of adventure.”

When they had tired themselves out they sat in the shallows and Michael sorted through the smooth rocks at the bottom — most blanketing the ground, stationary, and a few smaller ones tumbling by with the course of the water. Little black stones and soft white quartz piled up in Gerry’s lap until they both knew they wouldn’t be able to carry all of them home, and Michael didn’t stop anyway, smiling at the way Gerry smiled every time he added another one to the pile, unused to meaningless gifts.

After a while he started attaching meaning to them, just because he could — Michael was like that, he did things  _ because he could  _ — and as usual the meanings were sweet and adoring and overwhelming.  _ This one is so that you’ll be happy. So that you’ll always feel safe with me. So that you’ll always feel safe in general. So that you’ll hold me. So that you’ll be healthy. _

Finally: “And this, my light, is so that you’ll get up and follow me on an adventure right now, because I want to see if that’s really a waterfall I’m hearing upstream.”

Who was Gerry to resist? They forced their way up the river hand in hand, steadying each other on loose rocks and against the increasing force of the current. After a while it became too much to move against and they stumbled laughing to the bank, pushed through a patch of thorns to walk along the riverside, holding heavy-laden branches out of their way as they went.

It was a waterfall. Not a large one, but a pretty cascade of water falling over the rocks, edges blanketed with moss, bathed in sunlight. Michael was delighted and almost made for the open space behind the falls immediately, but, being Michael, he turned to Gerry first. “You alright? Overwhelmed?”

Gerry had been caught up in watching him — the drying tangle of his curls, the way his face had lit up at the vision. He shook his head, smiling, and watched the delighted expression grow on Michael’s face as he kissed both Gerry’s hands and ran radiant for the water, tossing droplets glittering into the light.

Again, it was a moment before Gerry joined him, content to stay on the bank and watch Michael swim, but the air in the forest was dry and sticking to his skin and he missed the feeling of cool water, soothing against the memory of his burns. The river pooled out in front of the falls, deceptively still, but the current was strong and they couldn’t stay long in its path, so they retreated instead to the shade behind the waterfall. It fell like a crystal curtain, stained blue and green and gold by the afternoon.

Michael floated on his back and Gerry watched his hair pool out around him, drift with the eddying tug of the water. It was peaceful there in the shade, and he thought the rocks might have echoed save for the water muffling the sound. He sang anyway, because he was happy and because he knew Michael liked his singing, and they were alone and the crash of the falls drowned out anything outside. A little hoarse, at first, but he saw Michael’s smile and kept going, and his voice gathered strength — so much of him felt stronger around Michael, and maybe it was something Michael did or maybe it was just that he felt comfortable enough to be strong.

Thunder rumbled somewhere outside and they both started, Gerry’s singing dying out in the middle of a line.

“Did you hear that?”

He nodded. “It has gotten darker, hasn’t it?”

And it was true — the colors visible through the falls had grown more muted, and faintly Gerry thought he could hear the sound of rain. They made their way out from their enclave to find it was already deepening into a downpour — warm summer rain that was surely soaking the things they’d left on the bank, though Gerry found he could hardly regret it when the sky had opened after a week of relentless sun and Michael was laughing and turning his face to the sky with such obvious joy.

His sketchbook was drenched. Pages stuck together, the pencil sketches of Michael soggy, but at least not blurred. He apologized — for what, he wasn’t sure — and Michael only laughed disbelievingly and took his wrists in his hands and kissed his eyes. A reassurance.

“We can try to dry it out at home. And you can get another one if it doesn’t work. I will miss your drawings if it doesn’t, though, I’m sorry for that too.”

Almost all of the drawings had been of Michael, and there wasn’t a clever way to say he didn’t mind much as long as he had the real Michael, and besides some days he wanted nothing more than to sit and sketch him again and again, so he’d soon have more. He opted to say it straightforward, and Michael, ever giggly, laughed and tried unsuccessfully to hide his blush.

They were gathering rainwater. Not bothering with towels, they collected themselves and Michael bent to kiss the water before they forged their way home through the dripping trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> could not stop singing 'only happy when it rains' while editing this chapter so do with that image what you will


End file.
